


with the ending in mind

by aegious



Category: IDOLiSH7 (Video Game)
Genre: (yes from hypmic), Ambiguous Relationships, M/M, Multi, Stella AU, its more focused on PLOT lmfao
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-20
Updated: 2019-08-20
Packaged: 2020-09-19 04:04:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20324818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aegious/pseuds/aegious
Summary: somewhere, a star streams across the sky, as if pulled along the edge of the night.Yamato's eyes follow the man as he slides into a stool beside him, his face carefully hidden behind golden bangs. He can only see two pink lips pressed together, and he thinks that such a grim expression doesn’t belong on someone so stylish.So he slides his drink across the uneven wooden counter, beer spilling over the edge and dripping down the dirty glass. Yamato pulls his hand away and sticks his finger into his mouth, sucking off the alcohol with a smirk that craves attention.“Looks like you could use a drink,” he says, leaning toward him, the strange person with gaudy fashion and a cold, beautiful face he longs to see more of.The man ignores the offering and turns away instead. “I don’t need it.”





	with the ending in mind

**Author's Note:**

> hello again! this is my second fic for the i7 flash bang! im so grateful to have been able to work with [kuru,](https://twitter.com/kuruspin) who created such beautiful art for my fic! it was an amazing experience to work with someone so skilled!
> 
> another shout out to [aru](https://twitter.com/Aruchama) for betaing this mess of a fic, thank you so much!!

_somewhere, a star streams across the sky, as if pulled along the edge of the night._

He turns heads as he enters the bar. 

It’s an aged building that reeks of sweat and rum, with dim oil lamps scattered across tables made from discarded scraps of wood. It’s a gathering place for people like him, wanderers and exiles without a home to return to or a family to speak of. The lost give up their rights to be found when they set foot in here, and so Yamato doesn’t think to put a name or a title to this newcomer as he inspects him.

His arm is wrapped around his waist, as if trying to dampen the jingle of golden adornments that have pulled from the seams on his robes and tangled together. It would be better to ditch them altogether—it would be lighter, and it would make him a smaller target. Even now, Yamato can smell the bloodlust from the other guests in the bar.

His eyes follow the man as he slides into a stool beside him, his face carefully hidden behind golden bangs. He can only see two pink lips pressed together, and he thinks that such a grim expression doesn’t belong on someone so stylish.

So he slides his drink across the uneven wooden counter, beer spilling over the edge and dripping down the dirty glass. Yamato pulls his hand away and sticks his finger into his mouth, sucking off the alcohol with a smirk that craves attention.

“Looks like you could use a drink,” he says, leaning toward him, the strange person with gaudy fashion and a cold, beautiful face he longs to see more of.

The man ignores the offering and turns away instead. “I don’t need it.”

The harsh rejection only stirs Yamato up, and he feels desperation welling inside him until his toes curl in his shredded sandals and his fingers grip at his baggy pants. “You think you’re too good for us?” he asks before he can stop himself. The din of the bar is quieting down as his voice gets louder, the patrons clinging to the drama stirring up at the bar. “You’re just like the rest of us, if you’ve come here. You know that, right?”

“I’m not like you,” the man says. His voice comes out a whisper, and yet it commands attention and wraps around Yamato like a vice, pulling him closer.

His stool scrapes across the unswept floor.

Yamato breaks out of his trance with a scoff, swiveling so suddenly on the stool that it lifts onto just two legs and nearly throws him off balance. “Get a load of this guy,” he sneers, jerking his thumb at the man who still sits calmly, silently, unprovoked no matter how much Yamato prods. “Thinks he’s so high and mighty.”

The entire hall bursts into unanimous laughter because they know. They know what it means to end up here in this hole filled with thieves and beggars. They know what they’ve lost and what they’ve given away to live this life of lawless freedom, to stand among the scum of the earth clothed in tattered rags without a penny to their name.

“Yamato.” And the hall goes quiet. Momose’s voice is a force that bends even Yukito to his knees when he speaks. “I know him.”

Momose leans closer, the grease on his cheeks reflecting the open flame of the candle perched precariously on the bar. If it wobbled only slightly, it will tip over and catch the dry, unpolished wood on fire and trap them all inside. It’s a fact they all know, and yet they keep coming back without a care to their fate. A metaphor, perhaps.

“Who is he?” Yukito murmurs, his smirk belying the small, meek voice that scratches from overuse. Long hair messily tied back comes loose from its binding and falls in his face as he leans onto Momose’s shoulder to see him better.

The newcomer does not speak, does not move, and Yamato wonders if he has by chance become a statue.

“There was a king from a nearby planet,” Momose explains, narrowing his eyes at him. “He’s currently missing.”

“Heard that from your sources, huh?” Yamato guesses. Momose shrugs.

Yukito’s head bobs up and down with the motion, and as he stubbornly stays put Momose giggles softly. “Momo knows everyone,” he says, nuzzling closer to him.

Yamato turns back to the man. A king…

“Is that why you’re so full of yourself?” he asks. He takes the chance and dares to poke him, unwashed and dirty fingers digging into the fine velvet and golden threads of the man’s robes. “You’re some king?”

“His clothing matches that planet’s style,” Momose continues. He gently pushes Yukito off his shoulder, but in a flair of dramatics he lands on the table with a loud thud that shakes the crumbling walls.

The patrons of the bar have closed in on them, and Yamato only realizes it when he sees a hungry glint in Tamaki’s eyes. Yamato leans back against the bar with a coughed-out laugh and lets the familiar scene play out.

Just like every night that some unlucky guest stumbles into the bar unaware, he watches Tamaki lunge for the man, his incredible height a weapon to immobilize his victim. Yamato imagines he’ll get three or four free drinks tonight as thanks for distracting the victim.

His heart stills when dark velvet and golden beads flash before his eyes, and the newcomer gracefully sidesteps the attack with a flourish. He throws open his robes and pulls a sword from a hidden scabbard in one motion, metal grating against metal.

He presses the rusted, blood-soaked tip into Tamaki’s chest. It’s too dull to pierce through the skin so easily, but the man’s steady hand and firm stance convey a warning louder than the startled shouts of the other patrons.

Yamato looks up and finally sees blue eyes beneath blond hair. The set of his jaw and posture speak danger, and Yamato’s mouth dries when he stares into those eyes.

A note of sadness plays along the rings of his irises, the gentle slope of his eyebrows furrowed into something Yamato can intimately describe as despair. The wound is deep, and Yamato finds himself drawn to the man once again, a sense of familiarity like a string of fate tying them together.

“You’re right,” the man says. His stance does not waver even as Tamaki slinks away, hands held above his head. “I was a king.”

“Was,” Yamato repeats.

“An idealistic king overthrown in a struggle for power that ended in the genocide of his people,” Momose explains. Somehow, he remains calm amidst the scene before him.

“All of them?” Yukito asks, lounging casually at the table, seemingly unaffected by the glint of the metal sword and the precision with which the man—the king—wields it.

“Every last one,” Momose confirms with a nod, and Yamato can see the king’s face stretch taut, his lips pursed together. His eyes glaze over as if he’s reliving some horrible nightmare. Perhaps he is. Yamato is no stranger to those spells. No one is, not in this place.

When the king speaks, his voice is broken and sad, so sad that it wracks through Yamato’s body as if it is searching for his heart, to squeeze it and draw it out from inside of him. His mouth opens involuntarily.

“They all died, yes. And it’s my fault.”

Momose pries because he is Momose, an artisan whose craft is knowledge. “Then what are you doing here?”

“Nowhere else to go for a fallen king,” Yamato grunts, settling back on his stool. The king seems to cave in on himself, his shoulders slumping and his arm falling. He sheathes his sword.

“I am not like you,” he repeats, and Yamato’s ears twitch with interest. “You are covered in dirt and grease and you have fallen to the lowest of humanity, nothing but petty beggars and thieves.”

Yamato raises his eyebrow and makes to protest. There’s no room for someone like him to talk.

“I was a king dressed in riches from birth. I was given access to the finest library and the best education by birthright. I was taught by a thousand people. And even with these privileges I committed the gravest sin. I’m not like you.”

The king falls back onto his stool. The mug of beer rattles with the motion and tips over, spilling its contents across the bar and dripping onto Yamato’s toes.

“I’m worse.”

There’s a chorus of grunts as they take in the king’s words. It’s disbelief, even a little humor, that seems to settle over them, that such a guest could join them tonight in this bar at the edges of society, where law doesn’t exist and morality is a joke.

“Where are you going?” Because they never stay, if they can help it.

The king turns toward him, mournful eyes pulling him in like a magnet. “I don’t know.”

“Take me with you,” Yamato finds himself saying, the words drip dropping from his lips in short rhythms.

“Where are you going?”

Yamato shrugs, a tiny motion that he’s sure the king doesn’t even see under his ragged scarf piled high up around his neck. “I don’t know. I’m bored of this place.”

The king hesitates. “Is it okay?” His voice is small, a whisper. If his full attention had not been on the king, if the room had not melted away and left only them together, Yamato would have missed it.

“I want to.”

The king’s response is a terse nod. “May I have your name?”

The beer between his toes squelches as he stands. “Yamato. You?”

“Nagi.”

His messiah.

_the future connects us with the ending in mind._

The scientist, Mitsuki, is at his computer typing in loud, short click-clacks, never once looking over his shoulder to acknowledge his guests. The laboratory, a large room filled with nothing but shelves of books and vials with strange liquid in them, is quiet except for the dead, tuneless hum of the dozens of large, heavy computers and other unknown machines stacked against the bare walls.

A table pushed carelessly against the wall has but one book on it, flipped open to a page with messy, illegible handwriting scrawled across it, secrets Yamato can’t understand etched in uneven lines across the parchment.

Yamato watches those unblinking eyes, like glass beads that reflect no light even as the computer screen shines brightly in front of him. He makes no move to indicate that he knows them, that they’ve been here for hours, that they’ve been talking for days ever since they stumbled upon the secluded house on the outskirts of the city on this peculiar planet.

“Leave.” It’s a demand that sends a surge of adrenaline down Yamato’s spine.

Mitsuki’s orange hair is pulled back into a single ponytail off to the side of his head, and there’s a pen in his mouth that he bites down on in a steady beat, as if playing out a melancholic song he knows too well.

Nagi shakes his head and instead takes a step forward. Yamato might make a crack about royal entitlement, but he himself carries a thief’s obstinance and smirks as he stands right alongside him. It’s odd, he thinks, how little distance there is between a king and a rogue.

The laboratory is alive with a vibrant hum, the only thing with life in it. Even Mitsuki does not radiate energy, his body sagged forward and only propped up by his elbows as he continues to type away.

“Why should we leave?” Nagi asks, his head tilted forward as if in challenge.

A shudder shakes Mitsuki’s shoulders. “I don’t want you to suffer.”

“I’ve suffered my whole life,” Yamato says with a smirk. “I’m used to that kinda thing by now.”

The tapping stops, and Mitsuki’s head bows as he finally stops his incessant work. “Why won’t you just leave…?”

His voice is low and almost whiny, a tiny plea from a man too broken to remember his pride. Nagi seems not to care, though, and he steps forward with such gusto that it sends a spark of connection through them all. “Come with us. We’re exploring the galaxy.”

“You wouldn’t want me.”

“We’re the ones who asked, didn’t we?” Yamato raises an eyebrow to punctuate his question. Nagi jerks and turns his head back toward him, blue eyes swimming with an emotion Yamato can’t place. He’s long since given up on trying to understand this former king, his feelings too big to keep inside his lithe body, his mood swings and over-the-top, grandiose gestures that both flatter and embarrass Yamato.

Nagi’s smile now stirs something in Yamato’s chest that makes him want to continue, to fall to his knees begging the scientist to follow them as they thread the stars together with jetstreams. He feels the loneliness they both share, their one common ground that holds them together like glue.

“You don’t know anything about me. Why do you even care?” If Mitsuki still had life left in him, the spat words might be scathing, accusatory, but there is only emptiness.

“You’re like us,” Nagi answers. He sounds so sure of himself, like always. Like the king he used to be. Sometimes Yamato remembers—it’s in the way he holds himself, the way he carelessly chooses words but says them with the conviction of someone who has never been opposed. He’s mesmerising when he falls back on these old habits, and as he continues Yamato listens, clinging to every silky word that drips from his silver tongue.

“Like you?” Mitsuki snorts. The room seems warmer despite the cold, artificial screens being the only light source in the laboratory.

“You’ve lost something,” Nagi says, and he sounds wise even if Yamato knows better. “It’s pulling at you.”

“Like a wish?” Yamato guesses. His voice echoes in the lifeless room.

Mitsuki hesitates, glancing off to the side as he bites his lip. His skin is pale, his glasses set askew on his nose. “I… have a younger brother. I left him years ago to pursue science.”

Longing fills the air, and Yamato is intimately familiar with it. He breathes deeply and feels the connection forming between them. He’s sure Nagi feels the same.

“He was your home,” Yamato guesses. The word _home_ sounds foreign on his lips, a tongue twister he could never quite get right.

Mitsuki nods stiffly. “I kept going and going, searching for eternity. And once I found it, I realize I’d lost myself.”

Mitsuki is looking at his hands, palms up as if he’s seeing something that isn’t there, staring directly into the past.

“Do you miss him?” Nagi’s voice is suddenly soft, floating along the gentle hum of the machines scattered throughout the room.

Mitsuki doesn’t say anything, but Yamato understands his answer.

“You should go see him.”

“I can’t,” Mitsuki says, clenching his fists until untrimmed nails dig into flesh and a bead of red springs forth. Dust coats the bookshelves and table like a wool blanket. “Not like this. He won’t recognize me. And I don’t know if he’s even still there.”

Nagi’s voice is barely a whisper, and he takes another step forward. Yamato finds himself pulled along as their fates intertwine and tighten. “You can’t know anything unless you go there.”

“Go…”

“Home,” Yamato finishes for him. “Go home to him.”

Mitsuki hesitates, but he doesn’t pull away when Nagi’s arms reach out to him, grasping onto his hands. Mitsuki relaxes, his shoulders sagging and his hands falling open. Blood smears across Nagi’s thumb.

“If—” Mitsuki curls his hands around Nagi’s, perhaps subconsciously. “If wishes can come true, then I’d like to see him someday.”

“Come with us,” Nagi repeats. He’s no less forceful, but his words are feather light and dance along Yamato’s skin, raising gooseflesh and bringing him to his knees.

He looks up into Mitsuki’s eyes and sees tears forming in them. “You won’t regain your humanity if you stay here.”

Mitsuki doesn’t protest when Nagi tugs at his arm to pull him out of the chair. The electric hum of machinery quiets as they walk away, and the world falls into silence except for the choked sobs of a scientist trying to save face.

Nagi’s elegant robes have long been replaced by simple cotton clothes that match Yamato’s, and he suspects that Mitsuki’s sterile lab coat will soon be discarded as he leaves a lonely existence behind. Nagi’s airship is waiting for them, the entire universe at their fingertips waiting to be connected by tacks and yarn on the starmap in their main hull.

They return to their home, Mitsuki in tow, and prepare for their next voyage and the next connection they will forge.

There is nothing left to say.

_this is a story about using your failures to fly._

**Author's Note:**

> does this count as a songfic? (lol)
> 
> i had originally wanted to write something longer for this but i'm happy i was able to write down my idea for the flash bang instead! i need to chill out with my aus anyway orz
> 
> you can find me on [twitter!!](https://twitter.com/aegious)


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